


so you think you can love me and leave me to die?

by junietuesday25



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Gen, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, and yes. i made a mitb fic. everyone and their dog has done a mitb fic. but yknow what who cares, i had fun writing it and that’s what matters, mentions of other characters but basically it's just michael, yes i named my mitb fic after the bohemian rhapsody. i do what i want ok, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junietuesday25/pseuds/junietuesday25
Summary: “Get out of my way, loser.”Loser. Loser. Loser.He feels faint. Sick.Hi, I’m Michael Mell, and I’m hanging in a bathroom at the biggest party of the fall because my best and only friend of twelve years kinda left me alone—
Relationships: Michael Mell & Jeremy Heere
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	so you think you can love me and leave me to die?

**Author's Note:**

> hello folks, here's the mitb fic that's been sitting in my notes app ever since...last year wow. has it really been that long since i got into bmc? i've edited and edited this thing so much, like if i was in even a vaguely angsty mood i'd just go and edit this thing (and the many scenes i've written that branch off of it) and at this point i thought i might as well publish it. anyway i hope you like this and i hope that i did this song justice

“Get out of my way, loser.”

Loser. Loser. Loser.

He feels faint. Sick.

 _Okay, Mell, breathe,_ he tells himself, through gasps that are quicky growing shallow and choked. Embarrassment tangles itself into his thoughts, that he’s even here right now having to calm himself down from a literal panic attack in the middle of a fucking bathroom at some random popular kid’s Hallowen party. It’s so stupid and trivial and absolutely humiliating. 

_In for four, hold for seven, out for eight._

It isn’t working. Michael grasps at his sweaty hair, trying to ground himself. His eyes are tearing up behind his glasses; he pulls them off, wipes them on his sweater, then replaces them on his nose, where they slip on moisture. The light filtering weirdly through the swipe marks on the glass makes him a little bit dizzy.

What did that article say? Describe yourself like you’re introducing yourself to the audience on a TV show to solidify yourself in the moment.

_Hi, I’m Michael Mell, and I’m hanging in a bathroom at the biggest party of the fall because my best and only friend of twelve years kinda left me alone—_

He closes his eyes and lets out a breath.

Well, who ever said that the internet‘s reliable?

_Knock knock knock knock._

The doorframe rattles, and for a second Michael lets himself hope that it’s Jeremy coming back to give the apology that Michael definitely fucking deserves by now. But no. It’s just some random dude who shouts, “Hurry up!” They bang on the door again. “Fucking—I need to _pee_ for fuck’s sake—”

Michael is already so, so exhausted, and he’s only been in here for a few minutes.

“You can’t come in!” he calls, praying his voice doesn’t shake. Small blessings; it doesn’t waver. That much. “It’s occupied!”

“But—”

“I—I’m bleeding!” Michael yells, and the person has to leave, they _need_ to. “Every time I cough I soak myself in period blood!” 

He can’t breathe properly. It’s like a vice is closing over his lungs, leaving him desperate for air. Why is he still here, why can’t he just pull himself together like a fucking _adult_ and get over it already? God. He’s pathetic.

“And I have a cold!” Michael rushes on through the spiralling thoughts, both hating and being grateful for how high and strained his voice is sounding right now. He coughs for emphasis. “It’s like someone got murdered in here!”

There’s irritated muttering. Then the knocking stops, and loud footsteps stomp away and down. Whoever was outside, they’re gone now.

Okay. Okay.

Michael sinks to the floor. It’s gross and a little bit damp—yay high school parties ~~do _not_ think about what that stuff might be ~~—but if he’d stayed standing he thinks his knees would have given out. “Loser” rattles around his brain, stinging, burning.

It shouldn’t hurt so much. It’s just a word. A stupid juvenile insult.

But it’s a word that Jeremy flung at him in an attempt to cause him pain. Or, well. Do you call things attempts if they work? 

Because it worked brilliantly. It’s reduced Michael to a ball of tears curled up on the floor of a bathroom, the only thing stopping him from completely breaking down sobbing is the fact that he is, in fact, still at some stranger’s house and not in the safety of home. A part of him is still in shock that Jeremy said those things, that Jeremy did this to him, that Jeremy hates him now.

Oh, god. Jeremy hates him now.

Or did Jeremy always hate him? What if Jeremy only kept him around because he was too anxious to tell Michael to fuck off? Or what if he kept him around for appearances, to show everyone that he at least had one friend?

How fucking pitiful. Look at him, huddled on the floor, crying in a bathroom at a party. It’s disgusting.

The thought only makes the tears flow more, which just makes him feel even worse, and it just feeds into itself and he can’t breathe, he feels sick, he needs to get _out_ he needs—

_Michael. Michael, breathe, count to ten, whatever. Just stop thinking for a second and calm down._

Okay. He can count. It’s about the only thing he’s good for.

As he sucks in slow breaths and counts backwards from a hundred by threes (takes more brainpower than counting to ten), Michael twists the curls of his hair with his right hand and picks at grout with his left in an attempt to keep himself distracted. It doesn’t really work, but hey, worth a shot.

How long has it been, anyways? It feels like both moments and hours. Is the party over yet?

He hopes so. He wants to get out of here.

Michael stumbles to his feet to move into the slightly cleaner bathtub, kicking his costume to the opposite end. He pulls the curtain shut, and then it’s just him, Michael, alone, with no one but his thoughts to keep him company.

It makes him think of when he and Jeremy would play hide-and-seek. They stopped doing it around the first year after they became friends, because they quickly discovered all of the hiding spots in each other’s houses, but he still remembers bits and pieces of their games.

Wouldn’t it be nice if Jeremy was out there searching for him?

It’s a stupid thought. Jeremy wouldn’t look for him. If anything, he’d try to avoid him, because who would go looking for something like this?

No, Jeremy’s probably already found someone else to replace him. Someone newer, and cooler, and funner, and _better._ Jeremy wouldn’t care that this other person doesn’t know his favorite pizza toppings (piles and piles of pineapple, the absolute heathen—even when they ordered Hawaiian at Jeremy’s house and he couldn’t eat the ham), and his favorite pokémon (it changes, but right now he’s fond of Quagsire), and favorite pokémon _type_ (flying, although dragon is a close second). Jeremy wouldn’t even stop to think about the friend that he left behind, because Michael’s not worth it.

Obviously.

Michael blinks away tears, and struggles to his feet to listen by the door. Slurred, off-key notes drift into the bathroom from downstairs:

_“I wanna dance with somebody!”_

“With somebody who loves me,” Michael whispers along, imagining, _wanting_ _._

He thinks about those stupid little dance parties he and Jeremy used to have back from maybe seventh grade and before, late on an occasional weekend. They’d blast whatever they felt like on Bluetooth speakers—Jeremy’s obsessed with showtunes, or maybe he just used to be, maybe his taste in music’s changed already—then they’d jump to the music and spin each other around and around and around and around until they got dizzy and stumbled and collapsed to the floor next to each other, laughing their heads off.

Michael feels nauseous. Is it the beers or the rejection?

Well, if worst comes to worst, at least he’s already in a bathroom. Michael grits his teeth and tries not to cry (even more than he already is) as he lowers himself onto the rim of the bathtub once again, pushing his fingers under his glasses to wipe at his eyes.

_Come on, Mell. All you have to do is calm down long enough for your face to dry up, and then you can get out of here._

Easier said than done. By now he’s internally debating whether to just walk out already, and come up with some flimsy excuse for his bloodshot, puffy eyes. It’s—weed! His extremely severe dust allergies!

Not that anyone would even care enough to bother asking.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

Michael seizes up at the sound, sucking in a sharp breath.

No, not yet! Forget what he said before, he needs more _time_ _,_ he needs to _breathe,_ he needs to think—

_Knock, knock, knock, knock._

Oh, hell.

“Yeah, I’ll be out soon!” he calls, but how can he do that, and his breath is starting to come faster now because they’ll see him like this, they’ll see his red eyes and dishevelled hair and stupid “CREEPS” sweater and think he’s such a _weirdo_ _,_ such a _freak—_

_Knock knock knock knock._

Where’s Jeremy? He wants Jeremy’s hugs, his warmth, his comfort, he wants _Jeremy,_ Jeremy should be here, but of course he isn’t, why would he be, Michael doesn’t deserve it, he’s disgusting and awful and terrible and Jeremy was _right_ to leave him behind because he screws up everything _he messes up EVERYTHING—_

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK._

Michael should just quit while he’s ahead, just give up already, no one loves him, he can’t even handle a simple high school party without ending up hyperventilating in the bathroom like an absolute loser, he’s _messed up_ and _broken_ and NO ONE deserves to have to deal with this mess of a human being, he wants to be _normal_ and _not_ like he is, he wants to be _cool_ and _interesting_ and _social_ and _skinny_ and _attractive,_ maybe then things might actually work for him, maybe people would actually acknowledge his existence, maybe someone would even _like_ him for ONCE in his MISERABLE EXCUSE for a _life—_

_BANG BANG BANG BANG._

He just causes problems for everyone, he just drags everyone down, if he was never even born his moms wouldn’t have to deal with _him_ and all his _issues,_ he causes them stress EVERY SINGLE DAY because he can’t hide all of his stupid sadness well enough and chill the fuck out and just be _normal_ and _happy_ and _okay,_ he sees in their eyes that they think he was a mistake, his entire life is ONE BIG MISTAKE, Jeremy thinks their friendship was a mistake, Jeremy _knows_ it was a mistake, Jeremy would be dating Christine if he never met him because he’s never enough for _anyone_ he feels like he’s gonna _explode_ he’s _crying_ and _choking_ he wants to _die—_

_CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG._

Why is he here, he should have known Jeremy would reject him, after all he’s just Michael Mell, _weirdofreakdisgustingawful,_ nobody can shoulder the agony of having to be with him, to know him, NO ONE CARES, he could disappear forever and no one would even spare him a _thought,_ no one would even have the decency to put him on one of the missing posters at Walmart that no one ever looks at, that’s how WORTHLESS he is, he wants to disappear without a trace, he wants it to be simple and quick and easy, he wants it to _hurt_ he wants it to make his nerves _scream_ he’s scared that no one will remember him if he’s gone, he wants someone to care about him, he wants someone to love him, that would be a miracle, that would be nice, is it nice to feel loved, he wouldn’t know—

Michael stumbles to his feet, the sink is right there, he turns the cold water all the way up, he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, he can feel the tears streaming down his face—

_SPLASH SPLASH SPLASH SPLASH._

Michael tears off his glasses and throws the water in his face. The shock of cold clears his mind enough for him to finally think straight. When he finally gets his bearings, slipping his glasses back on, the empty bathroom feels so stifling, and his breathing is so loud. 

He turns to the doorway. No one’s there.

Michael looks back at the mirror. It’s pitiful. His face and neck are still wet from tears and sweat and snot and water. His eyes are bloodshot, his face is puffy and flushed, his hair is sticking up all over the place. He hates everything about what he sees.

“Is it really true,” he whispers into the mirror, at the trainwreck of a human staring back at him, “I’m your favorite person?”

His mind fills in the blanks:

_Yeah, we’re never not gonna be a team!_

God. He was so _naïve,_ to have believed that for even a single fucking second. He remembers how happy he felt after hearing Jeremy say that, all the fuzzy love for his best friend that warmed his heart even as they left for the mall to buy the squip and seal his doom. Michael should have known that this was coming, honestly. Jeremy abandoned him at the mall not even an hour after those words. It must have been a sign.

Remembering all that makes him feel sick to his stomach. Jeremy was so _convincing._ Michael fell for his trap so easily, needing little more than scraps of affection to keep him sated. So what if Jeremy never seemed fully satisfied with his company? So what if Michael sometimes got the feeling that Jeremy wanted _more—_ more than just him and his video games and his vintage sodas, more than just their midnight dance parties and games of hide-and-seek and two AM anime binges, more than anything Michael Mell could give. Jeremy still cared for him. Jeremy still loved him. Right?

Michael lowers his gaze, away from the mirror. He can’t look at himself.

He was so fucking stupid. Such an absolute fucking _idiot_ to think that Jeremy ever gave a shit about him, that anyone ever gave a shit about him and his pathetic excuse for an existence. Just Michael fucking Mell. Failure. Worthless. Waste of space.

_Loser._

He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve just done what he always does, stay home, curl up in bed, binge some trashy TV show or documentary or even cable porn, because he’s such a complete and utter loser that he never gets invited to anything, he doesn’t even cross anyone’s mind, why should he, he’s not worth it, he’s not worth anything, he wants to bolt, hide, cry, he wants to die, he should kill himself, he could do it, there’s a bathtub right there and a medicine cabinet too, he wishes he was never born, he doesn’t want to have ever existed, he’s _tired_ and _sad_ and _done,_ he hates everything about who he is, who could love an _awfulpatheticdisgustinglonerstonerloserloserloser_ like him, he despises himself, please, just let him _die,_ he wants to _die_ he wants to not _think_ he wants—

Michael doesn’t do it, in the end. He already inconveniences the world enough without leaving Jake Dillinger a dead body to clean up in the morning. Instead he just stands by himself in that bathroom at a party like the loser he is, and covers his face with his hands, and cries into the quiet as the tears drip through his fingers.

It takes a while for him to collect himself. When he finally does, Michael shoves himself back into his “costume”, pushes open the door, and slips out of the party, and no one tries to stop or question him.

He keeps his head down and his body tucked close as he navigates out into the street and finds his PT Cruiser sitting on the curb; he opens the door, strips off the costume and dumps it in the back, then climbs inside his car, and the relief of being in a safe space is so overwhelming that he just sits and puts his head on the steering wheel for a minute or so, breathing in the familiar scent of the little pine tree hanging on the front mirror, cherry slushies, and a hint of weed. But then he shakes himself, and starts the car and drives home, and it’s strange to be driving with no music on whatsoever.

~~(Swerve off the road swerve off the road die die _die_ —) ~~

When Michael finally gets back to his house, he silently enters and goes down the stairs to his room in the basement, and it feels almost like exile. Like he’s being locked away so that no one has to deal with him longer than they have to.

It’s fair. He wishes he didn’t have to deal with himself either.

Michael doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He changes out of his “CREEPS” sweater and shorts, then pulls on the first shirt he grabs. Tomorrow he’ll regret not showering, but tonight isn’t tomorrow.

Michael curls up under a blanket and tries to breathe normally. There’s the childish urge to go upstairs and climb into bed between his moms, but he doesn’t need to go barging into their room at some ungodly hour of the morning just because he feels a little sad. They already deal with enough from him.

He hugs a stuffed taco, which smiles so much more cheerfully than Michael can even imagine pulling off right now.

He’s so tired. 

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> lol i wrote most of this in a single go at like 4 in the morning ngl i think it was better for it. you dont overthink when youre delirious with exhaustion but in the throes of hyperfocus, you write and you write pretty well even if youve gotta go back and proofread a ton. also rich text mode is so weird i usually go through and add the html tags in html mode but there's so much formatting i could not do that here. edit: fuck the rich text editor what is _up_ with all these weird spans and inserted spaces
> 
> comments are appreciated!!


End file.
